Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

M ax had sought solitude in the gathering dusk, wandering across his grounds. Now, he spotted a slight figure in dark clothes, dropping from the old oak with surprising grace. For an instant, he thought the whisky was playing tricks on his eyes.

But no, there was an intruder on his property, flicking leaves from her jeans with the casual ease of someone tidying up after a picnic.

‘And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing?’ The words came out low and dangerous, laced with the anger he had been suppressing all day.

She spun around, and Max stared into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Unrepentant. They bore into him with the same calculating focus he had noticed in boardroom rivals. Everything about her bristled with rebellion, from her scuffed boots to the worn black leather jacket. Yet, she held herself with the confident poise of someone who had strolled into a thousand places she didn’t belong and made them her own.

‘Would you believe I’m doing a survey on tree maintenance?’ Her tone was far too cheerful for someone caught trespassing.

He narrowed his eyes as she smiled at him, wide and unwavering. Though there was a flicker of something else beneath it. A slip in the act, maybe. Bluster, definitely. Straight red hair fell over her shoulders, framing the kind of heart-shaped face that belonged on a Highland single malt label. Her chin was set with quiet stubbornness, freckles dusted across her nose like cinnamon.

‘No.’ Max advanced and let his height dominate the space between them.

She didn’t move an inch, let alone quiver. Why didn’t it work? It usually did, and this woman was at least a full head shorter than him.

A low heaviness sat in the air. The weight of an impending storm, though whether it was in the sky or standing before him was unclear.

‘You are breaking and entering,’ he said.

To his surprise, she laughed. Actually laughed. ‘Breaking implies damage. I simply…creatively accessed public heritage.’

The sheer audacity radiating from this petite figure before him!

‘Private property,’ he corrected. ‘And you are trespassing.’

‘Ah, but that’s debatable. Did you know Dunmarach Castle was open to the public every summer from 1952 to 2002?’ She pulled out a small notebook and flipped through the pages with theatrical flair. ‘The tours were popular until—’

‘…until my father ended them.’ Max cut her off, unnerved by her interest in his family’s past.

Somewhere in the distance, the sky grumbled low and long.

‘And now I’m ending whatever game you are playing. Leave, or I’ll call the police.’

‘Hmmm…’ She cocked her head and studied him with unsettling directness. ‘No, you won’t.’

‘I assure you, I most certainly will.’

‘Nope.’ She popped the ‘p’ with aggravating confidence. ‘Because that would mean publicity. Questions. Journalists. Kerfuffle . And you, Mr Drummond, seem like someone who values his privacy over kerfuffle .’

‘So you know who I am.’

‘The brooding, absent owner of Dunmarach? Hard to miss.’

She gave him a measured once-over, and he was suddenly aware of his dishevelled state: tie loosened, three buttons undone, shirt half-untucked.

‘Though you’re more…rumpled than your rare press photos. Almost as if Hugh Grant was your stylist.’

‘Get off my property.’ Only one week left for him to say that.

‘I will. After you answer a few questions about the distillery’s history and—’

‘No.’ He stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo, something warm and bright. ‘I don’t give interviews, especially not to trespassers who—’

Lightning tore through the clouds, thunder booming down after it. Fat drops of rain began to fall, quickly becoming a deluge that would turn the ground into treacherous mud. It was as if the Scottish Sea had decided to move location. The woman yelped, clutching her backpack to her chest as if it held the Crown Jewels.

‘Brilliant,’ she muttered. ‘Bloody brilliant.’

Max should have let her get soaked. Should have watched her trudge back to wherever she came from. Served her right for sneaking onto his estate and disrespecting him.

Instead, he heard himself say, ‘Inside. Now.’

She blinked rainwater from her lashes. ‘Sorry?’

‘I expect you don’t have a car.’

‘No, I walked all the way from the village, like the peasant I am.’ She gestured toward the valley, where sheets of rain had reduced visibility to mere metres. Lightning split the sky and briefly illuminated the large iron gate further along the wall. Beyond it, the torrent was already transforming the muddy track downhill into something resembling chocolate mousse.

‘I would personally ensure you got back, but I don’t drive.’ The admission tasted sour. ‘I gave my driver the night off, and it’s too muddy to walk all the way.’

The rain made the ground dangerously slippery, and this woman breaking her neck on his land wasn’t a headline he wanted to wake up to. He didn’t need any more problems.

‘Och, dinnae be daft.’ She set her shoulders, rainwater streaming down her face. ‘My boots have seen much worse at Glastonbury.’

Another thunderclap shook the ground beneath their feet. The storm had positioned itself overhead.

‘Out of the question. This is different,’ he said and watched as her left boot made a sucking sound when she shifted her weight. ‘That track will be impassable in three minutes.’

Her eyes flickered toward the castle, then back to the threatening sky. She beamed as if a thunderstorm were her idea of a good time. ‘Okay.’

Max turned around. ‘Come. Before we both get pneumonia.’

He didn’t wait to see if she followed. The rain plastered his shirt to his skin, reminding him of how undone and ridiculous he must look.

As if Hugh Grant was my stylist. Fuck off.

It wasn’t just the worry about her breaking her neck on his land. Something about her pulled at a sense of honour he thought he had buried long ago.

The young woman – he still didn’t know her name – caught up with him as he opened the door.

‘For someone who was about to call the police two minutes ago, you’re being surprisingly hospitable,’ she said.

‘Don’t mistake necessity for hospitality.’ He ushered her into the warmth of the kitchen and turned on the lights. Water dripped from her hair onto the flagstone floor, forming small puddles. ‘Once the rain stops, you’re leaving, Miss…’

‘Rowan,’ she said promptly.

‘Pardon?’

‘My name. It’s Rowan MacKay.’ She stuck out a hand as if this were a normal introduction and not the result of her criminal activities. ‘Freelance writer and journalist, occasional trespasser, and very grateful for the shelter. Pleased to meet you.’

Max ignored her hand. ‘Stay here. Don’t move.’

He made his way to the linen cupboard next door in the laundry room and used the moment alone to collect himself. What the hell was he doing, letting a stranger in? The alcohol must have addled his judgement. He grabbed a clean, dry shirt from the shelf and swapped it for his wet one.

When he returned, she was examining the kitchen’s Aga oven with shameless curiosity. As if Dunmarach were a museum. Which it wasn’t and never would be.

She rubbed her hands together. ‘This is original, isn’t it? Must be at least seventy years old.’

Max frowned. How did she seem so at ease here? Most people stumbled over themselves to avoid irritating him. For good reasons.

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’ He tossed her a towel, trying not to notice how her wet clothes clung to her slender curves. ‘And stop snooping.’

‘Not snooping, observing.’ She dried her hair vigorously. ‘There’s a difference.’

‘Is there also a difference between breaking in and “creative accessing”?’

Her smile was quick. ‘Oh, absolutely. One shows robust initiative.’

Despite himself, Max felt his lips twitch. He squashed the impulse. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘So I’ve been told. Usually right before people agree to help me.’

‘I’m not people.’

‘No.’ There was something knowing in her tone that unmoored him. ‘You’re most definitely not. But you are helping me, so…’

Max turned away. ‘I’ll phone Mrs MacPherson to see if there’s a room ready. You can stay until the storm passes, not a minute longer.’

‘Your housekeeper?’

‘Yes. She lives in the village and comes in once a week.’ At least that was what he thought. The trust took care of the details. And Max had no idea why he was explaining himself to this insolent brat.

Or why he had offered her a room.

‘Ah. Part of me hoped her name was Mrs Danvers – you know, like in Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier?’ She wrapped the towel around her head. ‘Never mind. Former English lit student speaking. So it’s just you, rattling around in this ginormous place?’

Max’s jaw set as he tried to look anywhere but at her. The rain had turned her heather grey t-shirt almost translucent, clinging to her small, hard peaks and the gentle dip of her waist. He caught himself tracking a droplet down the curve of her throat and pulled his gaze back to her face.

‘My living arrangements aren’t your concern.’

‘Wrong. Everything’s my concern. Occupational hazard.’ She tilted her head, sending another trickle of water down her neck. ‘I’m a writer. Can’t help it.’

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stepped away. From the weight of her observant stare.

‘Excuse me.’ He brought up Mrs MacPherson’s number. Thankfully, it connected after only two rings.

‘Mrs MacPherson?’ He kept his tone clipped and professional to mask his discomfort.

He hated how little he knew about the place now. The estate was a loose thread he hadn’t bothered to pull at in years, leaving it to others to keep it from unravelling, while he poured himself into London’s cutthroat financial world.

‘Apologies for the late call. Which guest rooms are prepared?’

The east wing was being aired out and the south tower needed repairs, but the Blue Room in the family wing was always kept ready.

What a mess. He was forced back to play lord of the manor, and he didn’t even know which rooms were habitable. The castle had stood empty since his parents’ death, maintained by a skeleton crew. Mrs MacPherson and her team came weekly, going through their basic cleaning routine. Old Grant tended the grounds, and there was a night watchman –Thompson? Tomkins? – who patrolled the perimeter. Slater and his crew took care of the distillery down by the loch.

Max hadn’t had a say in the management, so he hadn’t cared.

And now he had a rain-soaked intruder watching him fumble through the basic remnants of Highland hospitality.

‘Yes, the Blue Room will do,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ He hung up before she could respond.

Rowan was still studying him. Those green eyes seemed to miss nothing. ‘Interesting place for a finance mogul to call home.’

Home.

His shoulders stiffened as he pivoted to the doorway. ‘First floor, third door on the right. I trust you can find it without climbing any more trees or sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’

‘Sure. Thank you, Mr Drummond. Or do you have a proper title?’ She didn’t even try to conceal her sarcasm.

‘Laird Maxwell Drummond of Dunmarach. Or…just Maxwell.’ The correction surprised them both. He cleared his throat. ‘The title is meaningless to me. And if you’re staying under my roof, you might as well use my name. I’m twenty-nine, not ninety-two.’

‘Maxwell,’ she repeated softly, testing it out. Something in her voice made him turn back to face her.

She looked rain-dampened and ruffled, yet somehow more alive than anyone he had ever encountered. Their eyes met, and for a beat, the air seemed to hum with possibility.

Then Max turned to leave. ‘Goodnight, Miss MacKay.’

‘Rowan,’ she replied. ‘And I’m twenty-four, not…’

But he was already halfway out the door before she could finish her sentence.

As he retreated to the study, footsteps echoing through the empty corridors, his pulse kicked against his collar. He couldn’t shake the image of rain-darkened auburn hair and challenging emerald eyes.

He had invited her to stay. A complete stranger. Caught trespassing, no less. Had he lost his mind? She didn’t look like an arsonist or a thief, though. Blame Drummond’s Finest. He usually stuck to the occasional dram, savouring it.

Not today, though. Today was chaos.

She had invaded his life like a badly timed shareholder meeting, wielding that vexing grin.

Worse. She had made him curious.

He didn’t do curious.

The way she had said his name grated against his composure. Her voice had a timbre that suggested she found him both amusing and transparent, a combination that made a muscle in his jaw twitch.

What a weird woman.

No. He didn’t want to wonder why she was here or what drove her.

He wanted her gone.

He needed to scour away the irritating awareness that had lodged beneath his skin like a splinter, to erase the memory of those keen eyes dissecting him.

Tomorrow morning, she would be leaving, taking her notebook, her probing questions, and that unnerving ability to scratch at his walls.

Good riddance.

Yet as he climbed the stairs later, an uncomfortable feeling clung to him like an ill-fitting coat: Rowan MacKay was more than a minor annoyance. She was dynamite in boots.